


my gift is my song (this one's for you)

by longboyzone



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Claude is a songwriter, Dimitri is a singer, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23941531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longboyzone/pseuds/longboyzone
Summary: Claude is an aspiring songwriter, and needs someone to sing his songs.Dimitri is the front man of a band, and needs some songs to sing.They both find what they need in each other, and then something entirely new.(a singer/songwriter dimiclaude AU, set in the 2010's)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51





	1. the spotlight's hitting something that's been known to change the weather

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! this is my second fic, so of course i decided to take a step up and write a multi-chapter slow burn. i dont know how long this will be, but i have a feeling im going to be at this for a while (hopefully, haha)
> 
> anyways, please enjoy this self-indulgent nonsense! ill try to update as frequently as humanly possible, so expect a new chapter or two soon. while you wait, feel free to check out my other fic for some short and sweet dimiclaude fluff!! :)))
> 
> a bit of a warning for this chapter: alcohol use and swearing
> 
> enjoy!!

It was dark, and it was dingy.

That is what Claude first remembered thinking upon entering the bar. It was an old, family-owned thing, nestled in the deepest, sketchiest back alleyways of the city’s downtown bar district. A real low-rate gig, weighed down with nothing special to see, and, most unfortunate to his current sobered consciousness, nothing special to drink.

It was Hilda who dragged him there, on her annoyingly adamant request of, quote, “getting him out for once.” While it was true he’d been much too preoccupied with his work to go out partying every night like she did, he didn’t quite like the idea of letting yet another night of blank pages pass him by.

Claude’s free time was starkly limited, especially now that his long-held job at Garreg Mach Records was consistently insistent in clogging up his schedule. He had finally, _finally_ managed to set aside some time to work on his little side project, a bit of dabbling in songwriting that he’d been fantasizing about ever since landing a real job in the professional realm of music. His empty draft papers had been neatly laid out on his desk, just begging for him to finally write something down, but Hilda had succeeded in snagging him away just as his key twisted in his apartment’s front door.

Her taking away the little time he had to finally work on this little dream of his was, unsurprisingly, not exactly appreciated by Claude. His mood was sour, and he didn’t exactly feel apologetic about it for once.

He proceeded to sit down heavily in a lumpy corner booth, his arms tightly crossed, a scowl drenching his face in pure, unadulterated bitterness. Hilda only laughed lightly, and hurried to scooch in next to him.

“Lighten up, doofus. I brought you here to have fun, remember?” She nudged his shoulder with her own, and popped her gum loudly in his ear. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone.”

“Yeah, and look where that got me,” Claude replied, putting his head in his hands, groaning. She only giggled in response. “To think, I could be writing Fódlan's next biggest hit right now, but instead I’m stuck in this shithole. Thanks, Hilda, really.”

The thought of the necessity of his work often crossed his mind, especially when he wasn’t actually doing it. After all, he already had his foot in the prospective door, that was for sure, and felt he was just one good song away from crossing the threshold.

See, Claude had spent the last few years at Garreg Mach weaseling his way around coworkers and higher-ups, scrounging for opportunities and piggybacking off of promising trends within the nooks and crannies of the music industry of Fódlan. He’d always had a sort of knack for writing music, and found that his talents could be effectively utilized within the favorable spot he found himself in: all cosied up with several agents and talent seekers, phone numbers just begging to be called, snug deep in his pocket.

But there was a big problem, because, while Claude could craft halfway decent music, he couldn’t exactly sing or play for shit. He wasn’t atrocious, far from it, but he knew that his untrained voice and lack of prowess in instruments wasn’t nearly enough to properly catapult his songs onto the charts.

That is the hopeless rut Claude found himself stuck in, a stick in the mud, his mind absolutely brimming with lyrics and melodies, but no promising strings, keys, or voices to carry them into existence. He was horribly, achingly, devastatingly defeated, like he’d been barreling down the highway at 90 miles an hour, windows down, hopes high in the air, but was stopped short by a sudden brick wall.

“That’s it. I’m getting us drinks.” Hilda huffed, annoyed with his sudden quiet pensiveness, and got up just as quick as she sat down. As Claude raised his head to protest, she shushed him. “Uh-uh, no. I’m getting us whatever cheap booze they got here, and you’re gonna like it.”

Claude watched the rhythmic swish of her dyed-pink ponytail as she stalked away in search of a bartender. When she disappeared around the corner, he slumped further back into the booth, feeling absolutely crushed. He spared a glance around his surroundings.

Man, this place really _was_ a shithole. The corner booth he was sat in was draped in an old glossy crimson fabric, with several punched-in holes haphazardly patched up with worn duct tape. Around the booth was a small number of equally weathered tables, chairs, and booth seats, all depressingly dingy and abhorrent on the eyes. There were only a few patrons accompanying him in the seating area, a couple of ornery looking old people who watched him and each other with suspicious, beady black eyes. Now, Claude was plenty used to suspicious stares every now and then, and has been since he was a kid, but these people were starting to make him downright uncomfortable.

He quickly averted his gaze to what the bar owners would call the stage. It was a simple, raised platform, with only one singular spot descending from the ceiling, drenching the sad thing in a melancholy shade of blue. No one was on yet, but there were a number of wires tangled around amps and mic stands, and Claude could tell that it was not going to be long before the sorry act gigged for tonight was to go up there and perform. He’d hopefully be gone and incredibly far away from this dump before then.

Claude then started to wonder why Hilda had even dragged him there in the first place. It was far from her usual scene, what without the usual loud thrumming music and sweaty, grinding men vying for just a pint of attention from any girl that breathed. In fact, there was no one there at all that Hilda would even entertain the idea of dancing with. It was on this thought that she came rushing back from around the corner, two glasses in hand and an excited grin on her lips.

“Miss me?” Hilda asked, sliding one of the glasses across the table to Claude’s part of the booth. “Watermelon vodka. Was one of the only fruity things they got. Man, this place really does suck,” she giggled, sliding in again to sit next to him.

“Then why bring me here in the first place?” Claude asked, not known for masking his curiosity when it had a particularly strong grip on him. “We’ve never even been here, and from what I can tell, it’s not a place I’d ever see you at. There’s nothing here but weird old people and dilapidated furniture.”

Hilda only smiled bigger in response.

“Ooh, that’s what I’ve been waiting to tell you. See, I know how hard you’ve been working, and I wanted to make your crazy stressful life just a bit easier for once, like the good best friend I am.”

Claude couldn’t help but huff out a fond laugh at that.

“So, I was talking to Holst the other day, and he was telling me about this crazy good band he saw play the other night when he was visiting downtown.” Hilda was practically vibrating in excitement as she told her story, and Claude couldn’t help but straighten his back in interest. “I mean, he was completely gone and ended up puking his guts out in the bathroom for, like, the rest of the night, but from what he remembered, he said this band was beyond anything he’d ever seen before.”

Claude deflated. Hilda’s brother, while a decent sort of guy, was the overdramatic type, especially when he recounted stories he’d had while drunk or stoned out of his mind. Claude couldn’t exactly say that this legendary band Holst was talking about piqued any sort of interest, especially now that he knew the poor guy was hunched over the toilet for the majority of their gig.

Hilda continued regardless.

“I checked their Facebook, naturally, and it turned out that their next show was tonight. Here.” Her vibrating evolved into a full-blown shiver of child-like glee, her white teeth glittering in her grin like shiny, happy pearls. “So, as you could probably guess, we’re here to see if they’d be willing to talk to you about your songs and stuff. You did say you needed a band, remember?”

Claude sheepishly rubbed the back of his head. Hilda really was a good listener, and he internally applauded her for that, but he couldn’t help but already cross this band off of his endless list of potential partners.

Sure, Claude could admit he was making unfair, hasty assumptions, but he couldn’t entertain the thought that the dream band he’d imagined topping charts with had only managed to land gigs at trashy dive joints like the one they were at. He'd fantasized about gleaming grand pianos, singing amps and massive buzzing crowds as the backdrop of his future band, not one single flickering spotlight and the faint scent of booze and vomit wafting through the air.

“Thanks Hilda, really,” he finally sighed, feeling honestly horrible about raining on her sunny day. “But I don’t know, I mean, I kinda doubt Holst would be the one to find me my band. ‘Specially if he was completely wasted while they were performing. But thanks, seriously, for trying. I mean it.”

Claude noticed her shoulders conspicuously sag at the gentle let-down, which broke his heart a little bit. Even if she was lazy and a bit air-headed, Hilda really was his best friend, and he hated seeing her even slightly upset.

“No, you’re probably right,” she sadly admitted, lifting her glass to sip at her vodka. “They had a stupid name anyway, something about blue moons, or whatever.”

Claude stayed silent, and allowed himself a brief moment of impartiality to consider the other side of the coin. Sure, he and Hilda were in a dirty, empty bar drinking a C tier in his personal list of favorite fruity drinks, surrounded by old people with more wrinkles than smiles. But, he _had_ already given up hope in getting anything done tonight, and Hilda _had_ gone out of her way to surprise him by finding a band in nothing but the pure goodness of her heart. When was the last time she’d done something for him like that? And was there actually any harm in staying just a little bit longer to hear some live music, even if it was likely going to be incredibly, painfully mediocre?

“Well, hold on. I think I’ll give ‘em a chance, Hilda,” Claude relinquished, and was instantly rewarded when her cloudy face began to brighten up again. “After all, you were thinking of me, even if it did cost me another night of work.”

Hilda giggled and lightly punched his arm. “Knew you would listen, Claude.” She then proceeded to down the rest of her glass in a single gulp. “I’m gonna get another. Want anything else?”

Claude stared at his untouched drink. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” With that, she went bouncing away again towards the bar for the second time that night, leaving Claude alone. Again.

His bored, wandering gaze meandered around the room, taking in the flickering exit sign just above the peeling black door it accompanied, and the questionable stains that littered the outdated carpet floor.

Then he heard the loud thumping of thick-soled combat boots upon a wooden platform, which tore his gaze in the direction of the stage . The boots (genuine Doc Martens, Claude pleasantly realized) belonged to a girl about his age, with cropped blonde hair tucked behind her ears and out of her face. She silently sat down behind the drum set, which was placed so far back on the tiny stage that her spine was only inches away from grazing the grimy wallpaper of the bar’s back wall. She loudly popped some bubblegum, picked up some drum sticks, and feigned thumping a beat while tapping her boot to the same rhythm. Music was quietly playing from the headphones lodged in her pierced ears. Claude safely presumed that this was the anticipated band’s drummer. A girl. Cool.

Not long after, two guys followed the drummer onto the stage, seemingly engaged in their own quiet, but unmistakably petty, argument. The taller one was dumbly smiling, his red hair brushed into trendy curled locks that fell just inches below his ears. The shorter one had his arms crossed rigid across his chest, his black sleeveless tank showing off a myriad of tattoos splattered over his biceps and forearms. He spat something awfully angry out to the redhead, which Claude guessed was a last-ditch attempt to end the fight, then stormed off to pick up the sleek bass guitar that sat at the downstage corner of stage right. His straight, glossy black hair was gathered into fringe that fell over his forehead, with the rest being tightly pulled back into a short, spiky ponytail. At the jeering dismissal, the redhead only shrugged nonchalantly and traced his fingertips along the electric guitar that was placed directly parallel from the bass. Claude assumed that they must be the bassist and the lead guitar, then.

Claude was pleasantly surprised. Not only was this a band with multiple people, but multiple _young_ people as well. Young people likely fresh out of college, who had probably given up on some easy, conventional career in order to do that which they genuinely loved. Seemingly chasing some far-off dream, just like Claude was. He couldn’t help but feel an honest bubble of excitement rise in his throat at the thought.

After minutes of the band’s tuning and quiet practicing, Claude started to notice the hole on stage. Center, downstage, in fact. A barren mic stand.

It seemed the other band members began to take notice too, as after a few pointed stares in the direction of the stage’s void, they began to talk amongst themselves, a buzzing mixture of confusion, wonder, and frustration. After a bit of back-and-forth amongst themselves, the shorter guy finally turned away, huffed something audibly mad, and stomped in the direction of the exit door. This puffy display turned a few heads of some patrons, who had either been glued to their phones or playing tabletop Scrabble.

Hilda came back just a second after.

“Woah, what was that about?” she sneered, obviously not really caring, only making conversation. She sat down again and Claude only then realized she’d been gone for some time.

“Where did you even go? You were gone for a while, Hilda.”

She pinked slightly, but brushed him off. “Only got my drinks, doofus. Why, do you care about me or something?” She deflected in a comically saccharine voice, batting her thick, mascara-coated lashes at him.

“Ha-ha,” Claude only teasingly laughed, as was routine when they poked fun at one another, which was frightfully common in their decade-long friendship.

It was then the loud slam of the metal exit door shook the bar, startling many as the same short guy stormed back in again, just as pissed off as he’d been when he left. Claude briefly wondered how that much anger could fit inside just one person. Following him a few feet behind was a tall man, who, when compared to the angry short guy, was absolutely giant. He looked awfully scary as he shuffled in after his band mate, refusing to peek up past his long, shaggy blond hair at anyone else in the bar.

The bar patrons, including Claude and Hilda, sat in a stunned silence as both men made their way onto the platform. The blond stalked to his designated spot in front of the microphone and tapped it hesitantly with his finger.

It was then, when the guy was facing the crowd with his whole body perfectly forward, that Claude realized that the singer looked like one hell of a character, a real "stood-out-in-a-crowd" kinda guy.

He resembled some kind of beastly wilderness hermit, with pale, pale skin and dark circles, his back slightly hunched over his gangly long legs. His dirty blond hair fell just above his shoulders, and long, thick, almost greasy strands of it descended from his overgrown bangs into the center of his face, almost completely masking his shadowy visage. He wore an incredibly faded heather gray tee with folded sleeves, which tightly hugged his fantastically broad shoulders and, somehow, teeny, narrow waist. His black skinny jeans were mercilessly ripped at the knees, and he wore dirty white converse that looked comically large next to his shockingly thin shins. And, if all that wasn’t eccentric enough, the dude had an actual _eyepatch_ completely covering his right eye.

“Um,” the guy started, then jumped when the microphone let out an ear-piercing wail in response. Several of the bar’s customers groaned obnoxiously loud, as they were already too drunk to care about hurting the nerves of the poor guy up on center stage. He then took a deep breath, closed his good eye, and started all over again.

“Um” - no screech, good - “I’m Dimitri, and we’re Azure Moon.”

Seemingly prompted by that short and sweet introduction, the drummer slammed her sticks upon the drum set, an excited grin stamping her face with visibly overjoyed bliss. Several patrons, including Hilda, jumped at the sudden, sharp sound, but Claude remained glued to his seat, eyes scanning every movement of the band, every jerk and roll, every tug and pull on thick string. The bassist and lead guitar joined in on the noise, and soon enough, the familiar, gorgeous shrill of live music covered the entire bar in a vivacious haze of musical life. Claude’s preconceptions started to fizzle out into an insignificant mist.

Mouth hung open, Claude remained still when the blond leaned forward to finally, _finally_ start singing with his band’s tunes. And, holy shit, when was the last time Claude heard a voice like _that_?

Dimitri’s voice dripped in a honey-sweet baritone, deep, moody, and soulfully gravely, and Claude swore he could feel its rough rumble shiver goosebumps into his own skin. Dimitri had his eye closed, blond lashes casting teeny tiny shadows over his dark circles, and his big hands crept upwards to grip tightly and emotionally on the mic stand. He still looked somewhat scary, sure, but he started to morph into some kind of stunning under the illuminating blue light of the lone ceiling spot.

Hilda must have noticed Claude’s silent gaping, because she laughed over the band’s noise and leaned on his shoulder. “Amazing, right?”

All he could was dumbly nod, eyes completely transfixed on whatever was unraveling before him. Whatever beautiful, incredible, all-the-stars-aligned type coincidence was happening; whatever once-in-a-blue-moon phenomenon was blooming and spreading its lucky petals all over Claude and his dreams. How could something like this happen? He’d planned on staying home, and, _Goddess_ , what if he actually had? What if he wasn’t there, at this perfect time, in this perfect moment? And it truly was perfect. They were perfect. _He_ was perfect.

And, all at once, everything started to fall into place.

“Hilda,” Claude gasped, quiet and breathy, turned just slightly to make direct eye contact. “They’re just what I need.”


	2. somethin' in the wind has learned my name, and it's tellin' me that things are not the same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, sorry for the lil wait! 
> 
> im not super happy w this chapter but that's okay because now things can start happening. :)

Dimitri took a step back from the mic stand, and shakily ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked bangs. 

Grounding himself, he gently breathed in the booze-drenched stink of the bar, and subsequently released the air in one quick movement of his lungs. Tonight’s gig had gone by fairly well, as was commonplace nowadays, and Dimitri was slowly letting the buzz he developed from performing filter out his still-jittering physique. Even after months and months of performing professionally with Azure Moon, the chills he got following a show took some effort to shake, and Dimitri found it was best to do so by letting his thrumming mind retreat within itself for a few moments of pensive silence.

Contemplating quietly, he moved on to his next task after ending a show, which was helping his band mates pack up their heavy equipment and load it back into the storage trunk of their shared RV. This was simply another step in his post-show routine, another thing to do before the next, and Dimitri felt content in the familiarity of it all.

Azure Moon had been steadily jumping around from gig to gig for a few months up until now, and, honestly, Dimitri really was starting to get used to the reliable sameness of it all. A man of persistent worry, he found that any semblance of routine he could muster was greatly appreciated, and something he often latched on to.

But, despite the sense of tranquility he received from such mundaneness, Dimitri was unfortunately beginning to feel a tiny bit restless in staying still, doing the same old thing nearly every night for months straight.

Sure, Dimitri was greatly thankful for the steady stream of opportunities to play music with his closest friends and actually get paid for it, but something, deep within the dark recesses of his mind, wriggled and practically begged for  _ more _ . Something else, something completely new to look forward to, other than Azure Moon’s typical scene of overly intoxicated bar patrons passing out during his mellow numbers or drunkenly shouting during the more upbeat songs. He thought, perhaps a bit selfishly, that he and his friends deserved a bit more than dive bars as half-hearted gigs for all their hard work.

And hard work it really was. Singing almost nonstop for hours a day every day really did something awfully unpleasant to Dimitri’s vocal chords, regardless of how much straight honey and hot herbal tea he forced down to soothe his throat. His fellow band members were not immune to the ever grinding gears of their labor either; Ingrid went to bed nightly with intense, rippling pain in her arms, and Sylvain and Felix both had bandages practically welded to their scarred fingertips. 

Suddenly, Dimitri was pulled from his melancholy thoughts with a light tap upon his shin, like a pleasantly quiet alarm clock freeing him from his long slumber. He jumped for a quick moment, then glanced to the source of the tap from the floorboards, just a step below the stage’s raised platform. 

It belonged to a man standing in front of Dimitri’s spot on the stage. He was noticeably shorter than Dimitri was, had golden skin and curled brown hair tucked behind his jeweled ears, and was wearing a toothy smile that seemed to charmingly glint even in the dim lighting of the bar. Behind the man was a young woman with eye-catching bright pink hair, and a faint smile curled on her glossy lips. After the once-over, Dimitri looked back to the man, and was met yet again by a gregarious grin, only emphasized further by dimples on his cheeks.

“Yes?” Dimitri breathed.

“Hi!” The man responded, the same bright smile growing into something even more blinding, more enticing. “You were absolutely amazing.” 

The man then reached up towards Dimitri and offered an incredibly friendly hand. He had a small array of golden rings decorating his tanned fingers, which were catching the blue light of the stage in a captivating way.

Dimitri hesitantly took the hand and lightly shook. “Thank you,” he awkwardly exhaled. 

Even though performing naturally came with oodles of audience feedback, straightforward compliments often transformed Dimitri into a completely flustered fool, donned with the absolutely worst kind of embarrassed blush. Especially when said compliments came from individuals Dimitri found particularly attractive. Like this one.

“Don’t mention it. But, wow, you and your band really were nothing short of incredible. I couldn’t help but try to talk to you after. Ever consider joining a label?” The man’s grin began to warp into some kind of wicked, as if he was preparing to lay down a long-crafted masterful scheme. Dimitri felt a jolt of nerves tighten his chest. This was new.

“Um, yeah, we’ve considered it. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone interested, would you?” Dimitri shyly replied. He didn’t want to seem too excited just yet. 

The truth was, yes, Azure Moon had been desperately awaiting the first inkling of corporate interest in their music. They’d been stuck in this opportunity-less rut for months too long, and he felt it was about time for something,  _ anything, _ to carry them out of their seemingly ceaseless slump.

But most endeavors in seeking interested parties ended up fruitless. While no one dared doubt the band’s inherent prowess in their instruments and quality of performance, it was discovered instead that it was actually their lack of original content that kept agents and record labels away and entirely unconvinced.

Unfortunately, the band’s scarce attempts at songwriting sessions typically ended with the four of them lounging about in silence until they unanimously threw in the towel. At the same time, it seemed other bands in similar positions were getting picked up by labels and agencies almost daily, all in possession of something that Azure Moon simply lacked.

So, yes, Dimitri had definitely considered joining a label. It was just that no label had yet been interested in him.

“Huh, it must be your lucky day, then.” The man grinned even wider, if such a thing were even possible. His pink-haired companion giggled into her hand at his side. “The name’s Claude.”

“Dimitri,” he sighed. The thought quietly surfaced that Claude likely already knew his name from Dimitri’s brief introduction at the start of the show. He internally waved away the invading thought, in a desperate attempt to save his face from pinking even further into a dangerously noticeable shade of scarlet.

Claude only chuckled lightly. “I know. Anyway, yes. It truly is some beautiful coincidence that we’re meeting. Because I just happen to know some very important people, the type that’ll get you out of bars like this and onto actual stages with more than one spotlight. Not to mention, like, actual audiences as well.” Claude lazily gestured to the sparse clumps of people still lingering in the bar, either returned to their games of Scrabble or passed out drunk on tables. They paid him no mind in return.

Claude’s promises certainly started to appeal to Dimitri. Undeniably, he’d always fostered lofty dreams of himself passionately belting his heart out to thriving crowds of thousands of people, loudly screaming for him and his band’s music, with success dripping Azure Moon in lovely shades of gold. But, a man in large favor of honesty, Dimitri couldn’t help but feel hesitant in the seemingly showy way this Claude person was detailing this plan to Dimitri. 

“Sounds nice.” At face value, though, Dimitri couldn’t lie.

“Believe me, it’s more than nice.” Claude purred. He then winked at Dimitri, and Dimitri silently berated his flushed cheeks for betraying his personal wishes of, for once, not looking like a total idiot. 

But, at the same time, Dimitri’s sense of logic finally began to catch up to him after being blocked by Claude’s charm. He began to internally admonish the equally stupid and emotional part of his brain, the latter of which was currently veering him off the side of a metaphorical cliff into the unknown abyss below. 

There  _ had _ to be a catch, he thought. There had to be. Dimitri had only known this Claude character for two minutes, tops, and he already felt himself fall victim to Claude’s unwavering beguiling air and cunningly silver tongue. Deep down, Dimitri knew that pretty words and exuberant promises only meant so much in the grand scheme of things, and he was not the type of man to potentially put himself and his friends in danger if it only meant hearing more pleasant things fall from Claude’s mouth.

“And how would this sort of thing come to be? It sounds rather difficult to achieve.” Dimitri stiffly muttered, suddenly shifting to put his hand on his hip in a clearly defensive posture. No matter how pretty Claude was, Dimitri wouldn’t let him break through his careful guard. He  couldn’t let him. 

“See, that’s the thing.” Claude casually replied, not faltering in Dimitri’s sudden steeliness. The charmer had a prepared answer to Dimitri’s concern, apparently. “I’ve been working at Garreg Mach Records for quite some time now. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

Dimitri certainly had. Garreg Mach was a dominating powerhouse within Fódlan's music industry, and had worked tirelessly alongside current and prior legends like The Knights of Seiros and Dorothea Arnault. In fact, it was through Garreg Mach’s private music academy that pop sensation Dorothea had even begun to make a name for herself. It seemed Garreg Mach specialized in making dreams come true, and Dimitri’s hesitance began to melt away at the mention of the label. 

“See, I’ve been making friends with all kinds of people there, and I know I can put in a good word for you,” Claude continued, toothy grin returned to its full radiance. “If... you’d do something for me.”

Ah. There it was. Dimitri’s hopes began to fizzle out just as fast as they’d begun to surface. 

Oh, Goddess _ ,  _ why? He’d just started to nudge his toe in the door, shifting his way slightly past the thick barrier that had once stood tall and high between him and his dreams of musical success for so, so long. In Claude’s grin, Dimitri found Azure Moon’s name across hordes of magazine headlines, countless stadium rosters, and on several shining platinum records, all framed in expensive glass display cases. Admittedly, Dimitri had gotten far too ahead of himself far too fast, but deep down, Dimitri was earnest to a fault, and such glimmering promises warmed his chest despite his brief, solemn lapse in his easy trust of Claude. Dimitri silently began regretting not walking away in the first place.

But, he was here, had nowhere to run, so Dimitri figured he’d might as well quietly listen to whatever likely ludicrous and incredibly shady need Claude had for him, before shutting the shorter man and his schemes down for good. 

And so Dimitri barely nodded at Claude, urging him to continue whatever spiel he was ready to unfurl. 

“So, like I said, I’ve been surrounded by a bunch of musical big shots from some time now. That sort of environment was just what I needed to, well, hatch a plan of my own. See, I really like music, just like you and your lot do. But I am awful at singing, and have no clue how to play any instrument. But…. give me a pen and paper, and I can make something outta nothing. And, from what I heard tonight, your set list could use my certain type of something. A new something, like a song or two no one’s ever heard before,” Claude grinned. “Catch my drift?”

Dimitri dumbly nodded, egging Claude on some more. He was waiting for whatever bomb Claude’s been making to be dropped.

“To be frank, I think you and your band have what I’ve been looking for. I’d really love for you guys to come down to one of Garreg Mach’s recording studios with me, and play a few things I’ve written.”

And, well, Dimitri wasn’t expecting that. He was expecting to be asked to do something awful, like mow 300 lawns for Claude with nothing but some scissors. Or something worse, something far more  _ crude _ . The sort of thing that happened sometimes in this particular industry. Dimitri shuddered at the thought.

But, no. Claude was simply asking Dimitri to sing a song he’d written. In complete honesty, Dimitri thought that Claude’s request sounded more like another favor he’d be giving to Dimitri, as opposed to asking him for one. It was a total win-win. 

Both parties seemed to get what they wanted. Claude had a song, but couldn’t play. Dimitri and his friends could play, but didn’t have a song. Dimitri didn’t ponder any other condition before coming to his decision. He found he didn’t need to.

“I’m in.” 

Claude raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “Wait, really? I mean, I’ve only given you some vague details. I was expecting some questions first, at least. Wow. Uh, thanks?” He awkwardly glanced towards his companion, who had been silent the whole time. She only shrugged, and flipped her hot pink ponytail over one shoulder. 

“It sounds wonderful, Claude. To be honest, my band mates and I have been struggling for some time regarding creating our own material. We’ve been wandering aimlessly in search of inspiration, but to no avail. Like you said, it truly is some kind of incredible coincidence we are meeting tonight.” Dimitri flashed a small, warm smile at Claude, whose face twisted into more surprise, as if he’d expected the complete opposite reaction. The shorter man then shyly looked away, and rubbed his hand on the back of his neck.

This moment of vulnerability was gone just as fast as it came, however, as Claude quickly beamed his winning smile back up at Dimitri, white teeth shining in place of the unsure tight-lipped frown he’d just been wearing. Dimitri felt more and more like Claude was playing some kind of role, like he was acting as the world’s swindliest car salesman or a much too giddy infomercial host. The brief lapse in his performance let Dimitri know that there was a man behind the glittering smiles and rose-tinted words, and Dimitri felt somewhat comforted by the thought.

“Perfect. I’ll try to fit you in on the schedule, then. If all this goes well, I expect you’ll get some lovely phone calls from some of my friends.” Claude grinned, then started to turn away. His friend stopped him in his retreat and glared, as if to remind him of something. “Oh,” he turned back, still smiling up at Dimitri. “Here’s my number. You know, for business reasons.”

Dimitri listened as Claude spelled out his number, typing in the man’s contact information in his phone. He then gave Claude his number in turn. For business purposes. Just for business. 

“Right. I’ll be seeing you then.” Claude huffed out a good-natured laugh, then turned on his heels. The girl he was with smiled, waved, and twirled away alongside Claude. They hopped away together, the girl talking excitedly into Claude’s ear and playfully nudging his shoulder. They seemed to be close. 

When Dimitri finally turned back to finish whatever mundane task he’d initially been doing, he was met with the expectant stares of his childhood friends. Felix had his arms crossed angrily to his chest, and Ingrid had her hands on her hips, her lips tied into a tight straight line. The stage was cleared, everything presumably packed away, which made Dimitri suddenly aware of the extended time that conversation took.

“What was that about?” Sylvain asked, stretching his arms over his head to feign disinterest.

Dimitri couldn’t help the smile that emerged onto his face. They’d finally gotten the chance. Just an hour or two before, Azure Moon had been stuck deep in the ceaseless muck of mediocrity, but now, they were but a step away from actually being considered by a  _ real  _ big shot record label. It was the perfect bit of leverage to lift them from the bog. Dimitri was practically shaking with anticipation to reveal the big news to them.

“That man back there, he invited us to record some songs with him soon. He works for Garreg Mach Records,” Dimitri said, and relished in the joyful surprise that danced across his friends’ faces. 

A chorus of “are you serious?” and “holy shit” rang out among the friends, and soon Azure Moon embraced in a cheery group hug. Ingrid’s stern scowl was quickly replaced by a genuine, laughing grin, Sylvain was practically bouncing up and down in glee, and even Felix couldn’t hide the slight quirk upwards on his lips, despite how hard he tried.

Dimitri still couldn’t believe it. Now, it wasn’t like they’d just been nominated for ten awards or heard of their albums selling millions, but the small leeway from Claude seemed just as exuberant and delightfully unbelievable in the current moment. 

Dimitri only hoped that the man would deliver on his flowery words. 


	3. it might be the color of the sun cut flat and covering the crossroads I'm standing at, or maybe it's the weather or something like that, cause baby you've been on my mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again!! here's an overdue update!!
> 
> this chapter is especially long so at least i have that as an excuse as to why this took so long, haha
> 
> also, if you haven't already, check me out on twitter and insta @postirrer ! im not v good at being active consistently, but im trying to get better and meet new ppl lmao
> 
> enjoy!!

Work was still work, despite it getting a lot more interesting as of late.

Claude frequented Garreg Mach just as much, if not more, than he did when he  _ didn’t _ have a prospect regarding producing his songs. He often came home from Garreg Mach feeling overworked and annoyed, and was absolutely drowning in unfilled reports and an unfortunate amount of petty work bullshit.

But, despite the pain of it all, Claude found that he did have at least one reason for waking up for work in the morning: Dimitri and his band.

Azure Moon did exceptionally well in their initial brief sessions in the recording studio, and hardly seemed to be intimidated by the stern, pointed stares of Claude’s coworkers and bosses. They’d taken to Claude’s songs like moths to a flame, and had made quite a few successful demo tracks that were pending approval.

It was a relief, really. It seemed Azure Moon was much more prepared for their newfound path than Claude had at first anticipated, which was something he was especially grateful for. After all, if the band had even cracked a little under the new pressure, Claude would’ve been much too embarrassed to even meet his coworkers in the eyes. 

Now, Claude wasn’t exactly the most respected person at Garreg Mach, as his official job title wasn’t especially noteworthy and he did garner a bit of a reputation as one prone to light manipulation and scheming. Which, honestly, was true. Claude couldn’t lie. But it did make things a bit harder, as he seemed to be constantly fighting to get attention from higher-ups regarding his rather bold passion project.

Despite it all, no one (besides Hilda) knew about Claude’s  _ true _ plan. That being: Claude launching himself into stardom _ alongside _ Azure Moon, for his work as the incredibly charming songwriter solely responsible for the band’s chart-topping hits. Call him a weasel, a manipulator, sure, Claude had definitely heard it all, but he absolutely knew to take an opportunity when he saw one. 

At first, few at Garreg Mach had actually been interested enough to look into who specifically created whatever songs Azure Moon were recording. Which was fine, really, as Claude was just glad most seemed entertained by the band’s mere presence at all. A step in the right direction.

But, Claude did plan on mentioning his songwriting to one person that he was fairly close to at Garreg Mach. A man named Lorenz, who was assigned to the same department as Claude, and had been there since the very beginning. 

Lorenz was a pompous man with a snobby attitude and unlikable disposition. He had an atrocious haircut and an even worse sense of style, and often whined about a broad assortment of mundane garbage, like generic-brand tea or low-brow television. But, Claude had long since gone under his skin enough to learn that he was actually kind-hearted deep down, and Claude felt he could actually trust him with something like this.

So, one day, Claude decided it was finally time to let the secret slip. He sat back in one of the reclining chairs in the recording studio’s booth, and folded his arms above his head. He then turned to Lorenz with a sparkling grin.

They were the only ones in the booth at the time, with all four members of Azure Moon behind the glass, all intensely working on recording the demo for one of Claude’s personal favorites in his arsenal of songs. The perfect environment. No one to listen in on Claude’s scheme but the lone moth that fluttered just outside the nearby window.

“Sooo, what do you think so far?” Claude slyly asked, flashing Lorenz a smile. Lorenz sat in a chair next to Claude, and had been engrossed in a thick stack of paper stuck to a clipboard minutes prior.

“Huh? Oh, they’re fine, I suppose,” Lorenz sighed, lifted a leg over his thigh, and gave Claude a bored expression in turn. “I mean, I’m not dazzled yet, but I wasn’t expecting much from you anyway, Claude.”

“Ouch,” Claude softly chuckled. He was plenty used to any semblance of an insult from Lorenz. He took absolutely no offense after all this time, especially since said insults were being made  _ Lorenz _ , the same guy who wore a fucking cravat to work thinking it made him look cool. So, completely unbothered, Claude pestered on.

“Say, do you know who wrote this song? Don’t think I’ve heard it before.” Claude put on a curious, innocent face, and smiled in the direction of Dimitri looking over several layers of sheet music. 

Lorenz sighed again and reached for the booth’s copy of the song, read it for a moment, and silently gaped for a moment more. He then twisted in his chair to face Claude, a hilariously exasperated expression contorting his face. 

“ _ You _ wrote this? I didn’t know you did anything other than meddle.” He suspiciously looked over Claude’s wide grin for a second more. “What sort of game are you playing, Claude von Riegan?”

“Always thinking I’ve got something up my sleeve, Lorenz,” Claude laughed. “But, I suppose you’re right this time. I’ve been personally writing music for a while, and wanted to give myself a real shot.” He then gestured to the band behind the glass. “I found these guys a week or two ago, and gave them some songs to work on. They needed something to play, I needed someone to play my stuff. Hopefully nothing too shady about that, am I right?”

Lorenz paused, studied Claude for a moment, then narrowed his eyes into tiny, suspicious slits. He hummed. “...I suppose not. But I’m watching you, Claude, so don’t do anything too conniving. I refuse to cover any mess of yours.”

“Don’t worry, I’m just fine. Hell, I’ll even get out of your hair once I’m out of this office for good,” Claude winked. 

Lorenz only grimaced, rolled his eyes, and went back to looking over whatever was on his clipboard.

Claude then took this opportunity to divert his attention back to Azure Moon. The band was flitting about the recording studio, each member practically glued to their instruments. 

Over the past few recording sessions, Claude found himself getting to know every one of these people in surprising new detail. He became accustomed to their likes and dislikes, and slowly learned what exactly made each musician tick. They all had such unique personalities, and Claude was getting more and more used to their charming antics each day they worked together. 

The combat-booted drummer was named Ingrid, and she was a military school drop out, with a determined personality and a habit of keeping the boys of Azure Moon out of too much trouble. Sylvain, the redhead, was a sort of alluring that rivaled Claude, and had an equal interest in partying and hooking up in addition to art and theatre. The angry bassist was Felix, who apparently won some kind of martial arts national championship when he was a teenager, and was, funnily enough, a massive cat-lover in secret.

And, of course, there was Dimitri. He was the one that interested Claude the most. 

Despite his weirdly intimidating exterior, Dimitri was an extremely earnest, honest person, which Claude found incredibly refreshing. After dealing with the two-faced stock of his industry for so long, Claude basked in the truthful way Dimitri worked, as the taller man was particularly determined in trying his best each and every day. He was quiet most of the time, sure, but he also had this crazy strong leadership presence that always subconsciously gathered all eyes in whatever room he was in. 

Claude found he wasn’t exactly immune to that draw, either. 

He was even watching Dimitri now, as the pale man brushed his hair out of his eye, and traced his finger over the printed measures on the sheet music he was holding. He was muttering to himself, and shifting on his feet as he studied the music. Claude found himself grateful for the dedication that Dimitri embodied, even in this quiet, lone moment. 

Really, Claude could’ve been stuck with a frustrating diva, or a musically illiterate hack, or even a so-called “singer” that could barely even belt. He’d definitely seen it happen before; Garreg Mach constantly had an abundance of talent-less losers coming and going, rinse and repeat. But, no, Claude had Dimitri; focused, truthful, talented Dimitri. 

Something in his chest softly, quietly ached. And Claude couldn’t exactly say what it was.

“Their time is almost up, for your information,” Lorenz suddenly muttered, sitting up in his seat and placing his clipboard on a nearby table. “Dorothea has the rest of the afternoon booked. She has a new album coming out soon enough, as you likely know.”

Claude hummed in acknowledgement, still somewhat in a pensive trance. He then cleared his throat, stood up, and looked at Lorenz with a rare seriousness he only saved for moments he needed to make a point. “Hey, Lorenz, please don’t make this songwriting thing... a  _ thing _ just yet. I don’t want to make a scene. Not in the meantime, anyway.”

Lorenz firmly nodded, and clapped a hand on Claude’s shoulder. He studied Claude’s face for a moment longer, then walked out of the booth and into the hallway. Not much time later, Claude heard Lorenz’s voice echo throughout the halls as he called for Dorothea’s presence.

-

Claude was just about to finally exit Garreg Mach for the day, car keys jingling cheerily in his hand, when he was interrupted by a light tap upon his shoulder.

“Um, Claude?” A voice quietly murmured behind him, the deep and rich pitch an almost instantaneous indication of its source.

Claude twirled around and was met with the sight of Dimitri standing close behind him, his eyebrows strung together in worry and his lips pulled in a tight line. Dimitri then glanced to the side upon meeting Claude’s gaze, and wrung his hands together, fingers long and criss-crossed. He seemed nervous, and Claude was suddenly intent on figuring out why.

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“Would you, er, mind meeting with me later today? To work on the songs?” Dimitri asked. “Only if you want to, of course. I, uh, don’t want to inconvenience you, as I am sure you are incredibly busy.”

Claude almost audibly giggled at the awkward sincerity of it all. He found it even more amusing that Dimitri had worried himself to the bone over something as simple as asking Claude to work with him. Claude then realized that Dimitri could command an entire crowd with his spine-tingling rumble of a voice, but could also be this sweating, bumbling mess before him.

And, if Claude was being totally honest? It was absolutely adorable.

“Yeah, of course, Dimitri. What were you thinking?” Claude noticed his voice had gone a tad softer, like he was trying to console a crying child or a puppy who’d had his tail stepped on. 

“Oh, nothing too serious, I assure you. I’m fairly sure Felix, Sylvain, and Ingrid would not mind if you were to visit our apartment for an hour or two,” Dimitri said, toeing his shoe on the crumpled sidewalk just outside Garreg Mach. “Especially if it  _ is _ for our music.”

Ah. Claude just got invited to Dimitri’s apartment.  _ Shared _ apartment, sure, but  _ Dimitri’s _ nonetheless. His mind began to recall the most recent times he’d last been personally invited to someone else’s flat. Thoughts of fleeting hookups and passionate one-night-stands surfaced, and he felt his face burn with the hot memories. But, no, stop that, as Claude was getting far too ahead of himself. Far too fast for just a short trip to Dimitri’s shared apartment. That was happening for business purposes.  _ Just  _ for business purposes.

“Yeah, sure. Sounds perfect. I was only going home anyways, I don’t have anything else planned for today,” Claude grinned. Which wasn’t necessarily true, as tonight had been one of his designated nights solely dedicated to songwriting. But, that was fine. Claude reasoned that he and Dimitri probably could do that together. Huh.

“Oh, really? Great! I, uh, I can drive you over if you want, my car is not parked far from here…” Dimitri trailed off, fishing in his bag for what was likely his car keys. 

Claude smiled. Something in his body shivered excitedly, in a faint, far-off way that reminded him of plummeting down the first drop on a roller coaster, or like the exact moment he’d had his first kiss under sparkling summer fireworks. It was a feeling Claude hadn’t felt in a while, and, in a way, that terrified him just as much as it made him absolutely, incredibly,  _ hopelessly _ happy.

-

Dimitri’s car was an average, unassuming black sedan. It had a grey, monoscale interior, with an air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror and small piles of assorted personal belongings stuffed in the back. Dimitri was hurriedly throwing a navy blue hoodie into the backseat just as Claude had slid into the passenger’s seat, mumbling apologies about “the mess.”

Claude had only laughed and moved to lean into the plush cushion of the seat. Dimitri’s blond head was scraping the car’s ceiling, and his long, gangly legs were scrunched up in his seat even though it was fairly low to the car floor. The sight made Claude laugh even more, albeit internally.

The car ride was uneventful but tranquil, and passed by in a relatively comfortable silence only broken by sparse episodes of friendly small talk. Conversation with Dimitri came easily to Claude; the blond was obviously just polite enough to keep a conversation going despite his bits of awkwardness, and Claude was, well, Claude. He could talk his way through just about anything.

Soon enough, they pulled up to a red-bricked apartment complex not far from Garreg Mach. Dimitri all but yanked his keys from the ignition and sprinted from his seat, and hurriedly ran around the car to pull Claude’s door open. Claude hadn’t even fully unbuckled his seat belt when he was greeted to the sight of Dimitri smiling nervously from his spot glued to the passenger door. Chivalry really  _ wasn’t  _ dead, Claude amusedly thought to himself.

“Here we are,” Dimitri happily sighed, and waved his free hand in the direction of one specific detachment of the complex. The front door was painted a chipped black, and verdant green bushes lined the pavement winding up to the entrance. Faded faux-gold numbers reading “1176” were hung haphazardly from the door.

“Thank you, Prince Charming,” Claude teased while finally lifting himself from the sedan. Dimitri gave Claude a weird, loopy smile in response, and turned to beckon Claude towards his apartment.

The pair entered the building and traversed two stories of rattling, metal stairs. It wasn’t long before they reached one specific door paces down the third floor’s dimmed hall. Claude watched Dimitri’s fingers fumble with his keys, and finally twist the correct one into the doorknob’s lock. He then gently pushed the creaky door open, and Claude was met with three gazes bearing holes into his frame. 

On one of the living room’s couches was Ingrid, her body splayed lazily over some throw pillows, phone welded in her hands, and a confused expression marring her pale face. Sylvain and Felix were sat on the floorboards directly in front of her couch, their backs flush to the sofa’s front and their hands gripping colorful video game controllers. Sylvain was wearing an amused grin bearing shiny white teeth and Felix had on the same scowl that was seemingly permanently etched into his visage.

“Look what the boar dragged in,” the small tattooed man grumpily sighed, and returned his eyes to the television mounted on the wall not far from him, which was currently displaying a paused menu screen.

“Oh! Hey, Claude!” Sylvain excitedly chirped. He then twisted, and shouted indignantly at Felix when the pause screen faded away to reveal a tense virtual fight. Claude supposed he wasn’t ready to start playing again just yet.

“What’s he doing here?” Ingrid inquired, her tone not malicious but not too friendly either. Out of all of them, she was the one typically most suspicious of Claude and his all too convenient smiles.

“I thought I would invite Claude over to help work on some songs together. You are all welcome to join us, if you’d like,” Dimitri announced to the small crowd.

Claude hadn’t fully realized that he’d be working with Dimitri one-on-one in private. All endeavors regarding their music had been in the presence of at least one other person, either someone from Azure Moon or someone generally related to Garreg Mach. Now, that wasn’t a problem, definitely not. But, well. It was new.

Surely, Claude wasn’t one to shy away from new experiences. He’d always prided himself on his ability to adapt fast and without consequence. But, that was more related to the realm of, say, jumping into pools from particularly high places or trying experimental foods from different niches of the world. Not in relation to matters like this. Matters related to the range of odd side-effects Claude got from looking at Dimitri for too long.

“I don’t think Felix and I need any help,” Sylvain replied smoothly, while he kept his eyes permanently fixed to the screen. Claude had never played this game, but he could tell Sylvain was being absolutely obliterated. Felix, the obliterator, only hummed an affirmative grunt.

Ingrid looked up from her phone, and gave a slight smile. “Me neither. All of the songs are easy, thankfully,” and Claude didn’t know whether to be impressed, pleased, or offended.

“Oh, okay,” Dimitri then turned to Claude, and gave a slight grin. “That leaves just us, then. Um, I suppose we can work in my bedroom, if that is alright with you,” he sheepishly looked away, likely familiar with the implication that invitation meant. Claude swore he heard Sylvain snort from his spot on the floor.

“Yeah, it’s cool. I don’t mind,” Claude shrugged and gave Dimitri an affirming smile. 

The blond upturned his lips in response, and began to lead Claude down a hallway that bisected the left-most wall. The hallway was narrow, and only a few steps in revealed two white paneled doors, one slightly ajar and the other firmly shut. Dimitri prodded at the open door until it swung open silently. He then exhaled a surprised gasp at whatever he saw inside.

“Oh, no. I’m an idiot,” he groaned, then turned to face Claude with an apologetic frown painting his features. “You’re not allergic to pets, are you?”

Claude stood stunned for a moment, confused at the sudden, seemingly out-of-the-blue question. “No…?”

“Good, because I forgot to mention that I have a dog,” Dimitri stepped into his carpeted room, kicked his sneakers off, and motioned for Claude to follow him. “She’s not vicious, so don’t worry.”

Claude hesitantly shuffled into Dimitri’s bedroom. He wasn’t necessarily afraid of dogs, but, considering Dimitri’s outward appearance, he assumed he’d be coming face to face with a giant malamute with piercing blue eyes, gnawing on a bone that was dubious in its origin. Pet owners often picked pets that looked similar to themselves, after all.

But, when he rounded the corner, Claude was met with the big brown eyes of the fluffiest, softest, roundest, smiliest,  _ cutest _ Golden Retriever he’d ever seen in his life. The dog dropped the chew toy from her adorable maw and bounded over to Claude, sniffing his shoes with her wet nose.

He couldn’t help the pathetic “awww…!” that left his lips. Claude was definitely more of a cat person, but he could never turn down the affection of any lovable puppy when he saw one. Especially not when they were as cute as Dimitri’s.

He bent down on one knee and eagerly scratched the golden fluff that lay behind the dog’s big, dopey ears. She panted happily in response and maneuvered to usher his fingers to her side, which Claude assumed was her favorite spot to be pet. His fingers danced over her soft pelt and eventually reached a nylon fabric. Claude peered under her fur, and noticed that she was wearing a blue harness that extended just beyond her collar and wrapped around a small portion of her torso. Claude looked up at Dimitri, and noticed the taller man’s socked feet sway uncomfortably on the bedroom carpet. 

“She’s also my emotional support animal,” Dimitri sighed, and moved to adjust the straps of his eyepatch. “I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

Claude let out an incredulous chuckle. “Bother me? What would possibly bother me about that? I already told you, I’m not allergic.” He gave a soft smile to Dimitri. “The only thing that is bothering me right now is the fact that I still don’t know her name.” 

In that, Claude hoped to distract Dimitri with a bit of light humor. The blond was obviously uncomfortable discussing the topic of whatever had to do with the reasoning behind him needing an emotional support animal. Which, of course, was fine. Claude decided to let it go, to not pester Dimitri with the questions that were bubbling in the back of his mind. Comfort now, curiosity later.

“Oh, I apologize. Her name is Lion.”

“You named your dog ‘Lion?!’” Claude barked out an obnoxious laugh. 

Dimitri’s face contorted as he tried to feign annoyance, but couldn’t help but smile at Claude’s amusement. “You have to admit she looks like one! I thought it was cute, and lions are my favorite animal…” He trailed off, and failed at holding in a slight giggle.

“Lion” perked up at the laughing men and gave a lopsided, goofy smile in response, her tail thumping loudly on the carpet. Claude was slowly starting to realize that this dog was probably a better representation of Dimitri than the malamute could have ever been. 

“No, no, you’re right, it is cute. I was expecting something else, s’all,” Claude admitted.

“Like what?”

“Like… Blade, or... Midnight. Something edgier, colder,” Claude tapped his chin in thought. 

Dimitri frowned at him. “Edgier? Is it because you think that I am “edgy”? And cold?” He lifted his fingers in air quotes when he said the slang, and Claude felt that Dimitri likely didn’t use such words often.

Claude also didn’t feel like lying. “Honestly? When I first met you, totally. I mean, you walked up on that stage wearing an eyepatch and ripped skinny jeans. You’re the lead singer of an underground band called ‘Azure Moon.’ You have to admit that’s outwardly edgy, right?”

Dimitri hummed in defeat. “I suppose so, yes. But I’m not trying to be. I’ve been told I look a bit scary by many, and the children who live in nearby apartments like to call me ‘The Pirate.’” He sadly laughed at that. “It’s all in jest, but I’d rather be considered in a kinder light.”

The room fell into a somber silence. Claude turned away from Lion, who’d gone back to gnawing on her toy, and took in the sights of Dimitri’s room. It wasn’t large, and only housed a full-sized bed, a closet, a corner lamp, and a desk and chair. The desk was littered with papers and pencils, many of the latter lying in pieces after likely being snapped in two. The closet was stuffed with clothing that stayed true to a sole color palette, that being grays, whites, blacks, and blues. The bed was made, and had an acoustic guitar resting in the center of the cool gray duvet. Claude moved to sit on the end of said bed.

“Well, you know what they say, ‘never judge a book by its cover’ and all that.” Claude attempted to be genuine. Which was hard, sure. But he’d make an exception, just for Dimitri. “Coming to know you a bit better, I’d say the whole scary thing is just a piece of puzzle. You’ve got far more than that to offer.”

Dimitri paused, eyebrows raised, then moved to sit next to Claude at the foot of the bed. He reached behind himself, picked up the guitar silently, then peeked up at Claude from under his pale eyelashes. “Thank you, Claude. That’s kind of you.” Then, a small smile. A cute, little smile.

Claude felt his own lips quirk upwards in response. It was like his body reacted several millennia ahead of his own thoughts, leaving him pliant and subject to whatever embarrassing dopey grin or flustered blush felt like surfacing. Damn Claude’s body and the way it got all weird and mushy whenever Dimitri was around. It wasn’t a good look; suave charmers like Claude were supposed to make other people swoon. Not the reverse.

So, Claude loudly cleared his throat, and tried to reroute the rose-colored air before things got awkward. He was there for business, after all. Business only.

“So, uh, what did you want to work on, exactly?” Damn his throat and the way it was all clenched up. Embarrassing. “I got some song drafts in my notebook, if you wanted to take a look?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dimitri’s smile faltered for a millisecond, then fell into a tight-lipped grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Uh, sure. I feel pretty satisfied with the demos, so I could offer some help with your new works. If… uh, that’s okay.”

“Yes, of course that’s okay. You don’t need to ask.” Claude said, and quirked an eyebrow. 

Dimitri's smile then broadened in turn. It was amazing, how Dimitri seemingly wore his heart on his sleeve, how he conveyed all of his thoughts on his face just as they emerged in his mind.

The blond strummed absent-mindedly on his acoustic guitar while Claude set his own bag from his shoulder onto his lap in search of his notebook. Claude almost always brought this bag with him wherever he went, especially when he was going to work. It contained a variety of personal belongings: his phone, his wallet, a water bottle, etc cetera, et cetera. But most important was this small, worn leather notebook that he used to write down lyrics or chords whenever inspiration decided to strike. It’s yellowed pages were starting to fray along the edges, and the notebook had fluffed to double its original size with the way each page was wrinkled and meddled after long-time use. Claude thumbed through said pages until he reached his most recent etchings.

“Here,” Claude said, and leaned closer to Dimitri to show him the pages sketching the outline of his most recent draft. “I’ve written down some new lyrics, and a few sample chords we could work off of.”

Dimitri’s hand brushed Claude’s as he gingerly retrieved the notebook from Claude’s outstretched grasp. The little brown notebook looked absolutely minuscule in Dimitri’s hands, and Claude realized just how much smaller his own hands were in comparison to the hands of the taller man sitting next to him. An interesting thought. 

Dimitri hummed to himself as his lone eye scanned whatever he could pick up from Claude’s chicken scratch on the page. Perhaps it would have been better to type up lyrics and notes on a laptop, but, honestly, Claude was both too lazy and too old-fashioned to bother lugging around such a thing when he could easily manage with his perfect little notebook. Dimitri seemed to be doing just fine anyway; Claude deciphered the exact notes he’d written down rise and fall with every soft breath Dimitri exhaled.

The room was still for several moments. Claude with his hands in his lap, simply watching Dimitri as he maneuvered around whatever Claude had written on those yellow pages. Dimitri himself, shiny acoustic guitar balanced on his legs, his long, slender fingers toying with thick strings, voice a pleasant rumble echoing sweetly throughout the room. And, of course, Lion on the carpeted floor, tail thumping to some foreign beat that sometimes seemed to blend _ just right  _ with Dimitri’s singing.

It was so, so soft. And Claude’s chest quietly, quietly ached.

In a moment of the worst kind of self-sabotage, Claude finally let himself stare. He didn’t silently berate himself when his eyes danced across Dimitri’s features. He didn’t avert his gaze when he observed the way Dimitri’s pale, calloused hands threaded through the strings of his guitar. He didn’t force down the lump in his throat when he committed the sight of the oceanic blue of Dimitri’s lone iris, the sole blue star, to his memory.

Claude wasn’t the type to look at people like this. Most people came and went, he appreciated their outer appearance, drank it in for a night or two, then moved on to the next pretty picture. He couldn’t remember the last time he let himself trace the lines of people’s faces; the way he traced the slight curve of Dimitri’s aquiline nose, the lift of his blond eyelashes, the sharp turn of his focused brows, all the hills and valleys that were carved into his profile. It was like his eyes were moving across each practiced brush stroke upon a canvas, each inked line that came and went across smooth, white paper.

Claude had hardly even known the guy for a month, and here he was, staring unabashedly at Dimitri as if he were the Goddess’ own personal magnum opus.

Hilda would have an absolute field day with this if she was here.

But, as all things do, Dimitri’s voice finally came to meet its end. His melodies fizzled out, and the room lulled in a pregnant pause. He then closed his eye for a moment, and turned to smile at Claude like he  _ didn’t _ just stop the world on its axis and beckon the heavens to come down from above. Claude, the fool he was, only gaped.

“Was that good?”

Goddess, Claude was positively  _ fucked _ .


End file.
